She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. "But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Only a book detective could dope this out. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose.
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